The Copper Weeping Game

Autumn had dressed the Prescot Pines in a gaudy funeral coat, and we, the Bolt & Arrow club, were its mourners in motley. We’d come for the season’s last paintball practice, a final riot of color before the mud and gray of winter. The air was sharp with the scent of wet bark and woodsmoke from a distant chimney, and the ground was a treacherously soft carpet of rust and gold. My team, a rowdy lot of weekend warriors, were in high spirits, stuffing crisp leaves down each other’s collarbones and yelping as they crunched against their skin. I was with my brother-in-law, Finch, and our two dogs: Gigi, a sleek greyhound with the soul of a startled deer, and Dale, a cocker spaniel whose tail was a perpetual metronome of joy.

We’d pushed about a mile into the forest, past the point where the trail forked and the old, half-collapsed stone wall began to snake through the trees. The map said there was a clearing ahead, a natural basin we used as a base camp. But as we rounded a thicket of hawthorn, a hush fell over us. It was as if the forest itself had drawn a breath and held it. The banter died, and even the dogs, who had been a blur of fur and mischief, stopped dead. Gigi’s ears flattened, and Dale let out a low, then a series of sharp, anxious barks. They paced back and forth, their hackles raised, staring into the dense gloom of the pines to our left.

‘What is it, boy?’ I asked, trying to sound calm. Then young Tom, barely nineteen and the newest recruit, pointed a trembling finger. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘By that big oak. I saw something. Someone in… in armor.’ We followed his gaze, but saw nothing but dappled shadows. A groan of laughter bubbled up from the group. ‘A knight errant, Tom? Looking for a joust?’ Finch elbowed me, grinning. But the dogs had gone berserk, barking uncontrollably, zigzagging between trees as if chasing an invisible foe. Their frenzy was so unlike them that a knot of unease tightened in my stomach.

We tried to shush them, but they wouldn’t stop. Then another teammate, Marcus, who was usually quiet, said, ‘I just saw a man with a bow. He was standing right behind that birch, nocking an arrow.’ He sounded sure, not like a joker. But we all looked, and again there was nothing. ‘Okay, this isn’t funny,’ I said, forcing a laugh. ‘Who’s messing with us?’ I scanned our group; everyone was present, none had their phones out or were hiding behind trees. The forest around us was still, but a feeling of being watched crept over my skin. The dogs’ barking pitched higher, becoming almost a shriek, and I saw Gigi’s legs buckle momentarily.

Then, a new sound. It started as a faint, metallic shiver, like a distant chime, but grew into a grinding, weeping noise, all around us. It was like the entire forest was made of rusted metal and was being slowly twisted. The leaves on the ground began to tremble, not from wind, but as if something beneath them was moving. A few of the guys had their paintball guns up, but I doubted they’d be any use. Then Tom screamed, a short, sharp cry. He was pointing at a spot between two trees. We all saw it: a tall figure, humanoid but horribly wrong, draped in what looked like tarnished copper plates that were fused to its body. It had no face, just a smooth, dented helmet where a head should be, and it was weeping, a sound like metal being scraped against stone.

And there were others. They emerged from the trees, silent, bow-armed figures with eyes like dead coals, their arrows nocked but not loosed, just watching. A woman beside me, Zoe, let out a choked sob and started running. That broke the spell. We all bolted, back the way we came, dogs at our heels. But the forest had changed. The path we’d walked was gone, replaced by an endless maze of identical trees, and the light was failing, not with the natural dusk, but as if a veil was being drawn over the world. We ran until our lungs burned, but we seemed to be running in place, the copper-masked figures always a step behind, their weeping growing louder.

Suddenly, the ground gave way, and we tumbled into a shallow pit lined with root and stone. The soldiers – if that’s what they were – formed a ring around the edge, lowering their bows. The central armored figure stepped forward and raised a gauntleted hand. It pointed at me, then at Finch, then at each of us in turn, as if counting. Then it lowered its arm, and the weeping stopped. In the new silence, I heard a sound I’ll never forget: the soft, wet crunch of leaves, as if a hundred bare feet were walking toward us. The last thing I saw before the darkness closed in was Gigi, my poor terrified greyhound, lying on her side, her eyes still and glassy. Then the ground closed over us, and we were gone.

I woke up days later, or maybe months, in my own bed, with no memory of how I’d gotten there. Finch was in the hospital next door, with no recollection either. Tom, Marcus, and Zoe were never found. The police searched the Prescot Pines for weeks, but they found nothing, not even our paintball gear. The only remnant was a single, misshapen arrowhead, made not of stone or metal, but of a material that seemed to be solidified, weeping copper. I keep it in a box under my bed, thinking sometimes that I can hear it crying in the night, but I’m too afraid to open the lid. And sometimes, in the deep of the forest, I imagine I can still hear them – the thin, metal shriek of a bowstring, and the endless, patient sound of leaves being disturbed by things that should not walk under the sun.